Page 9 of Miss Beresford and the Beast

“An urgent word, my lord!” Turner said with a hard tug on Magnus’s arm.

Magnus broke off, allowing his valet to pull him aside. “What now?”

“You can’t be setting an amnesiac straight before their time,” Turner whispered. “Have to play along with them, don’t you?”

Magnus’s brows lowered. “What nonsense is this?”

“Seen it myself during the attack in Japan. One of the midshipmen didn’t know who he was after the cannonball hit. The surgeon said as how we had to humor the lad.” Turner made a disparaging sound. “Thought we knew better, didn’t we? Gave the poor sod the facts. Too much for him, it was. Fell into a right state. Thrashing and shouting, like a madman.”

“If this is another of your tortured metaphors⁠—”

“It ain’t, my lord. You’d recall it yourself if you hadn’t just had half your own head blown off.”

Magnus ignored the callous description. At the moment, his battle scars were the least of his concerns. “You’re saying I have to let this…this person believe that I’m her—” He stopped short of saying it. It was too offensive. Too ridiculous. Like some cruel jest of old made at his expense.

Turner nodded. “Until she gets her memory back, aye. Which she’s bound to once the shock wears off, ain’t she? All we have to do is⁠—”

“May I have something to drink?” Charlotte interrupted politely.

Magnus briefly closed his eyes, silently cursing every decision that had led him back to Moorcross Manor. No amount of money was worth this infernal risk. Better he had stayed in France. Better he had died.

At the moment, he rather wished he would have.

It was far preferable to acting out this insulting pantomime. Pretending that he was someone—anyone’s—husband. That he had a pretty, auburn-haired wife with robin’s egg blue eyes who could look at him without recoiling.

With a final kindling glance at Turner, Magnus went to the already opened bottle of whiskey that stood on a dust-covered table near the fireplace. He poured out a glass. It was the only thing he knew of that was suitable for shock. Good thing, since it was all he had to offer her.

“Here,” he said. “Try this.”

Charlotte attempted to lift her head only for it to drop back again on her pillow. “I-I’m afraid I can’t⁠—”

“I’ll help you.” Once more, Magnus sank down on the edge of the bed. Sliding his arm around her shoulders, he assisted her up just enough to sip from the glass he held to her lips.

A subtle fragrance stirred his senses. The sweet, sultry scent of roses. A perfume applied with such a delicate hand as to only be discernible on close contact. Something she’d put on for the benefit of her lover, Magnus didn’t doubt.

Ignoring the beguiling smell, he tipped the glass for her.

She took a tentative drink. Her face immediately contorted with distaste. “Oh!” she coughed and sputtered. “What is that?”

“Medicine.” Magnus raised the glass again.

Charlotte grimaced as she took another choking swallow. “I thought… tea, perhaps.”

“’Spose I could make some tea for my lady,” Turner said.

Magnus directed a warning look at him. “That won’t be necessary⁠—”

“Could you, please?” Charlotte interrupted. “With sugar?”

Turner bowed once before darting from the room.

It was all Magnus could do not to go after the blackguard and wring his scrawny neck. Just because they couldn’t disabuse this woman of her concussed delusions, didn’t mean they had to play along with them.

“I haven’t forgotten how I take my tea,” Charlotte said. “That’s something, isn’t it, my love?”

My love.

Magnus’s attention jolted back to his unwelcome guest. She was staring up at him in uncertain expectation. He cleared his throat. It was damnably tight all of a sudden. “Err, yes,” he managed.